Brody's Kid
by jennii.b
Summary: Sanford Brody joins Indy & Mutt for their trek to tropical climes. (T rating just to be on the safe side for possible language & suggestive themes)
1. Chapter 1: Linguists & Leavings

"May I go with you, Dr. Jones?" she asked.

She reminded him of a little girl. It hadn't been so very long ago when this child of Brody's oldest child had first ridden into his life-a whirling dervish on an antique bicycle with a million questions and a way of connecting answers. She was nineteen now. Alone in the world.

It had been a rough two years.

"No. Finish this, then we'll talk."

She sighed. She'd already completed her degree. She was working on a masters, then would go for her doctorate. Her life was laid out before her in one giant rut. She'd get a job as a librarian or docent in some university library or museum. She'd never get into the boy's club.

"Dammit," she muttered, turning away.

"Hey, kid," he offered an embrace. He tucked her close, knowing that she'd be okay, that she'd be better off without him and his stigma. "Maybe they'll give you my classes."

"I'll try to stay off government watch lists," she promised. "Call me."

"I will."

The call came sooner than she'd expected. He called her from his home the day after they'd said their good-byes.

"What do you remember about South American Pre-Columbian skulls?"

"Death masks?" she asked. "Mexico is huge into the skulls. And skeletons, for that matter. They're not considered gruesome there. Even grandmothers and parish priests and old neighbor ladies have them."

"Go back further," he told her. "Change materials. What's filed there under crystal skulls?"

She snorted. "Have you been drinking?"

He laughed. Mutt looked at him. "I've got a letter from an old pal. You want to help an old man muddle through an ancient language he doesn't remember very well?"

She thought about it. "You have to take me."

"Take you where?"

"Letters, languages, and a laugh in your voice mean you're leaving. Again. With a destination this time. I want to go. I've never been to South America. I've never been anywhere interesting. You have to take me or you can spend the next sixteen years wandering around the same tree in the jungle."

"You're thinking of your dad, dear," he told her.

He knew by her silence that she wasn't giving in.

"I think my phone's probably tapped," he told her.

"Then we'd better get the hell out of Dodge, don't you think? You get what you need, I'll pack what I need, we'll meet in the middle." She hung up on him.

The middle wasn't really the middle, which sounded like a place approximately equidistant and convenient to both parties. In this particular case, however, it meant nothing of the sort. Marcus Brody and Henry Jones, Sr. had big fans of this little joint in the next town. So far as Indy knew it had no name. It was tucked in a crowded row of little shops and stores and tea spots on a cobbled street. In the middle of an antiques dealer and a tiny, old-fashioned library. It smelled of cigarette smoke and roasting beef.

"This is the guy who broke your dad's statue," Jones said as he approached the table. He ducked a kiss on the crown of the pretty head and slumped into one of the mismatched chairs.

"I didn't-not really," Mutt started. She looked like every 'good girl' he'd ever seen in his life. Impossible to age, she could have been fifteen or thirty depending on how she dressed. She wore a slim skirt and heels with a butter-colored blouse embroidered with a springy leaf pattern at the edge of the puffed sleeves.

And she smiled at him.

"I know. I ignore Dr. Jones when it suits me. The way I heard it, a car rammed Dad's monument after having chased you all through most of the campus. And that you lost him by trashing the library."

Jones shifted uncomfortably. "News travels fast."

She merely arched a brow at him. Mutt figured her for an academic snob.

"This is Sanford Brody, son," Jones said, gesturing. "Daughter of the renowned and beloved Marcus Brody, who was my dad's best friend. San, this is Mutt. Mutt Williams. Does the name Mary Williams mean anything to you?"

San flinched before she shook her head, obviously displeased that it didn't. She shifted her gaze to stare unabashedly at the younger man. He was handsome, appearing on that cusp between being uncomfortable in his skin and making the world comfortable with who he was.

"Wife or mother?" she asked.

"Mother. She's in trouble. So is the Ox."

"Oxley, do you-"

"I remember Professor Oxley stories," San interrupted. "So you run in the same circles?" she asked.

Mutt shrugged. "Apparently so."

"Good deal. Let's get down to business," she smiled. Whatever secret criteria she reserved had been passed and he was allowed in, just like that. It changed her whole demeanor.

"What did you drive?" Jones asked her as they pushed back from the table and he dropped cash to cover their meal.

"My car. But the truck's at the house. What do you need?"

"I'm packed and good to go. Is there anything you need to make this work that we can't get at a department store?"

San reached beneath the table and came up with a small, soft-sided case. "There are two flights out of PanAm this afternoon," she told him.


	2. Chapter 2: Jungle Heat

Sanford had to hand it to Dr. Jones. He'd always told her there was nothing romantic about trekking through lost worlds in the real world. He'd been absolutely correct in that assessment. She'd been jerked around, attacked repeatedly, escaped from an imploding temple to _alien lifeforms_ of all things, and she was still stuck in the jungle. And since she was a _girl_ she'd been delegated to resources. Which meant that she'd be cooking and cleaning while he and the Ox discussed more weighty things.

Mutt let himself suffer through the indignities of having his wounds checked and cleaned. His ribs had been wrapped-the bruises turning quite a spectacular range of colors already. Now it was her turn.

"Let me see your cheek," he told her.

She covered it with her fingertips. "I don't think so."

"I just want to look at it. Jungles are ripe for infections."

"Learn that fixing bikes?" she asked him. "It's been disinfected. Twice."

He caught her hand and twisted it away, securing both of her fists beneath his palm as he raised the lantern to examine the mark that marred her smooth skin.

"Which one of them did this?" he asked. His face was so serious it almost made him smile.

"I'm not sure," she told him honestly. "I'm not even sure exactly when it happened. It could as easily be from our little cave expedition as from one of the Russians."

He ran his fingertips over it, smoothing on the salve. When he should have been done he dipped his fingers again, lingering over his ministrations.

"Whoever it was should be shot. That's not how you treat a lady."

Her smile tipped up in amusement. "The last thing I want is to be treated like a lady," she complained.

He rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. You want to be seen as an equal. You're going to have to be happy with something in the middle. You are a lady. Of certain breeding, even. There are expectations. But you handle yourself well. Really well. I don't see the old men breaking you any time soon."

She pinked under the complement. Their eyes met and it was easy. She sighed, more contented, as the jungle noises wrapped around them. The cache of equipment had been a treasure trove. Coffee simmered on the fire, abandoned it would seem. The fire burned low. The tents left by the soviet team had yielded a superb dinner and the things they'd need to make their trip back easier. Although what they'd been thinking bringing two motorbikes was beyond her. There were five of them. Mutt's was the only bike designed to carry two. It would have to be addressed later.

Mutt moved closer to her, wiping his fingers on the gauze she'd brought to clean him up as she'd stitched the gash on the heel of his hand. Her eyes were dark, like the deepest parts of the ocean, the darkest blue of the skies.

They blinked closed as he bent his lips to hers.

The sigh escaped then, brushing past him like the hum of a pleased heathen god.

Outside mosquitos and snakes and who knew what else bumped through the night. In the main tent the two young people were content to explore only each other.

She'd stripped down to her blouse, rolling up the sleeves before she'd begun to piece his flesh back together. His hand throbbed like a bitch. Still, as he ran it over the contours of her body he managed to put the pain out of his mind. Or maybe it was the feel of her hands-her fingers brushing through his hair, her palms on his chest, cupping his face and neck.

He pulled her closer, breathing her name.

When her hands slipped up his shoulders he moved, stripping off the jacket so that he could feel her hands on his arms, so that only his t shirt remained between them. His weight bore down, bringing both of them to the ground. She sighed under him, snuggling him closer as his mouth grew more insistent. She sighed, almost a moan, and his hand strayed down to splay at her waist.

She'd worn man's pants-simple, tough, khaki canvas, and a black button-down shirt. The dark jacket she'd worn was history, lost somewhere along the trail. Still she'd managed to keep the battered leather messenger bag with her throughout their misadventures. It was lying beside them, never far, her journal inside waiting to recall every impression, every sight seen, every fact unearthed. She'd scribbled in it almost constantly, translating and then retranslating and then starting over again, on their way down.

He'd give her something to write home about.

She shifted restlessly underneath him, her hands pulling his shirt from his blue jeans, untutored enthusiasm in action.

His mouth moved to her neck, feasting on the hollow beneath her ear. His hand kneaded at her waist, the other brushing hair away from her pretty face.

Her fingers clenched his upper arm, her foot coming up to rub against the back of his calf.

"I've never done this before," she confessed.

"It's okay," he told her. He reached for the first button of her shirt, pressing soft kisses to her lips as he unbuttoned the shirt to reveal a matching camisole beneath it.

"I don't know what to do," she told him, meeting his eyes.

He smiled at her, his eyes dancing in the play of light and shadow beneath the tent's flaps. "Do what feels good," he told her, closing his eyes and bracing himself above her, brushing his thumb over her jaw as he sunk into her mouth again. Her hands moved up his torso, playing over his strength and potential.

Suddenly the happy feeling was gone. Something was choking him, grabbing at him.

Some part of his brain registered that Indy was looming over him, one fatherly hand gathering the back of his collar, the other attached to his belt.

Mutt found himself dragged to his feet, although his father chose not to loosen the choking hold on his shirt.

"Young lady, go to your tent!" Jones ordered disapprovingly. His frown was ferocious.

She scurried back, pulling her shirt a bit closer around her, then gained her feet, stopping only to scoop up her bag.

Jones turned to his son, shaking him a little. His voice became lower, more incredulous than pissed. "What were you thinking?" he asked. "That is the daughter of one of the most respected historians ever. The daughter of a friend. 'Do what feels good'?" he quoted.

Mutt grinned and shrugged. "It was working for me," he told the older man.


	3. Chapter 3: Honeymoon Announcements

_Marian and Indy's wedding was everything their friends could have wished for them. The honeymoon afterward a well-deserved respite in tropical climes._

_Only to come home to have a bomb dropped._

"Dr. Jones," she said softly. "Dr. Jones...Indy...Indiana."

Finally his brain cleared enough to focus on the soft mouth sweetly saying his name over and over and over.

"You're being an ass," the refined tone told him. TO his face. In front of God and everybody.

Predictably, he exploded. "I'm being an ass?! _I'm_ being an ass? I get back from my honeymoon and my return party is that you've done something I told you not to do and _I'm_ the one being an ass."

She set her jaw and blinked at him. If either of the others in the room knew them well enough they'd have recognized the stubbornness-and the fight brewing.

Jones turned on his son. "I can't believe you married her!" he shouted. "What in God's name were you thinking?" He rounded on the young woman again, shaking off his bride's restraining arm. His hands were shaking as his face clenched. "I should strangle you myself! With my bare hands. Your father left me in charge of you until your twenty-first birthday. At which point, going at the rate you _were_ going, you could have been running the free world. Why in the hell did you get married?" He slammed his fists onto the table top and glared at them. San's hand had crept out to seek her husband's. She hadn't lost the combatant look, though.

"Just who they hell are you angry at? Which one of us isn't good enough for the other one? Huh?" Tears threatened. A lump had formed in her throat. She _had_ been forbidden to get involved with Mutt, but that was before they'd discovered his parentage. And then they'd been discreet once her guardian and old friend had lost his cool in the rainforest. He'd cautioned her to finish her masters, get her doctorate, get settled in her field before she pursued a serious relationship that led to an eventual engagement and marriage and the requisite two point five kids. She hadn't expected huge displays of joyous weeping and thanksgiving. But she'd never in a thousand years expected this kind of reaction.

Jones leaned forward, beseeching them to understand. "You are _so_ young. You have _so_ much more life to live. And now this." He shook his head. "It's not that you married each other. It's that you're married _at all_. _Why_ did you have to get married now? _Why_ couldn't you have waited-a couple more years at the most? So that you were settled. With stable jobs and some savings and some kind of a plan for the rest of your lives." He looked at his son. "I thought you were going back to school. How the hell are you going to manage that and support a family at the same time?"

Mutt's jaw came out even further. "I'll manage, Pops, thanks all the same for the love and concern."

"Henry," Marian chided softly. The look he shot her shut her up.

"We'll be fine," Sanford Brody-now Jones-whispered. She tugged at Mutt's hand. He glanced over at her and finally nodded. Giving her hand a quick squeeze he let it drop, then stepped around the table to kiss his mother's cheek.

"Congratulations on your nuptials," he told her.

Marian's hand came up, trapping the young man's face beside her own for a moment before he pulled away. Her child nodded at his wife. She met Jones's eyes and nodded once.

Jones let his slide shut and shook his head slowly. "You cannot know what you're doing," he told them.

Mutt turned again. "Is she another illegitimate child of yours? Because right now that's the only thing that could stop us."

"Is getting an annulment an option?" Marian asked.

Mutt laughed and lifted one side of his mouth. "Are we committing any crimes or perversions by being married?"

She shook her head and looked at Indy. He, too, let his head shift from side to side. "Only in that you're both too young, both too impetuous, and both too unreliable."

"Please," Sanford countered. "If there is one thing we're not it's unreliable."

Mutt's brows neared his hairline. "And from where I'm standing, young isn't a problem. At least we're not afraid of embracing what we have. It took you two two decades to get back together. And how many years before that was your first go-round? I'm not taking lectures on decision-making from you. Ox is constantly saying that too much time is wasted in waiting. Well, we're not waiting. Because tomorrow may be it. Every tomorrow. And that's why we made the decision we did. Knowing that it wasn't going to meet with your approval." He tugged Sanford's hand. "C'mon. We have to go."

"Where are you going?" Marian asked, running forward a few steps.

"Work," Mutt sighed. "We both have to work this afternoon. Sanford's got classes and I have the bike shop."

"Sanford works part time. You barely make minimum wage. How do you figure that's going to be enough?" Indy groused.

Sanford held up two fingers and lifted her aristocratic nose. "Two words-trust fund. You can't cut my allowance and in two years I'll get control of the rest."

"Shush," Mutt whispered. To his mother he said, "I make enough. We've lived lean a time or two. I promise we won't starve, our children won't go barefoot, and we won't be begging for any help."

Indy shook his head as he sank into the dining room chair. He lifted a hand out to the couple hovering beside the back door. "Please think about this," he begged. "Be in love. Buy her a ring, but don't be married. Not yet. Not just yet. Enjoy being children before you turn into adults."

Sanford's cheeks shimmered as the first tears escaped. "We're all grown up, Dr. Jones. Neither one of us has led lives that allowed us to be children longer than we should have. This is what you get for encouraging adult behavior and adult thinking. We are ready. And I'm sorry you don't see that. Because I want our children to know you and appreciate you. You're hurt and surprised and angry. Angrier than I anticipated, although that wouldn't have changed my actions even if I'd had foreknowledge of it. We're leaving. We do have things to do. Because we want to make this work. As responsible members of society. I love you. You're all the family I have left. So I hope you come around. If not for me than for your wife and your son and your grandchildren."

"Are you pregnant?" Marian asked softy.

Mutt shook his head. Sanford smiled. "Not yet," she whispered, meeting the other woman's gaze. "At least not that we know of, anyway. But we're trying and hoping." Her grin seemed more suited a girl who gotten a much-desired present than a parent anticipating the birth of a child. Marian realized then that she was a combination of both. And _that,_ for some crazy reason, reassured her. So she stepped toward her husband, bracing him with both hands on his shoulders.

"Okay," she replied, speaking past the lump in her throat. "Drive carefully. We'll see you soon." She inclined her head toward her child. "Be careful. I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom," he said huskily.

"Bye," she called as they stepped out the door. Then she lowered her face to Indy's shoulder and sobbed.

Later that evening, much later...after Mutt had picked Sanford up at the campus and done some of his own schoolwork and helped her go over the papers her students had turned in...after they'd made dinner together in her father's kitchen...after they'd eaten it in the dining room where she'd grown up eating meals while discussing world politics in languages that had been dead for centuries...after they'd crept up the stairs and made love in the big four-poster bed...after their bodies had cooled...while the rest of the world quieted, Mutt snuggled her closer.

"I have one regret about this afternoon," he confessed.

Sanford turned to him, shifting so that she could look into his eyes. "One?" she asked, incredulous.

He smiled at her. Having known his father all her life she saw the similarities. As Dr. Jones was playing the role of the Big Bad Wolf at present she decided not to mention it.

"I told them our children wouldn't go barefoot. But I didn't mean it. I want them to run barefoot in our backyard. And step on a bee once. Just to experience it, to know how it feels. And I want them to dig their toes into the sand of some foreign beach. And wash in clear streams in countries where English has never been heard before. I want so much for them to live life like we have."

She cupped his cheek and drew his mouth down to hers. "They will," she promised. "They will."


End file.
